At the Midway (76 page)

Oates was honest enough with himself to realize his current treatment of Garrett had as much to do with the chief machinist's failure to tell him what was going on in his shop than any offence on the ensign's part.  In fact, Garrett had performed heroically while bringing in the coal. But things were getting out of hand.  Nature Herself had gotten out of hand.  Garrett's trial by fire would be the trial of them all--because if he failed, they might all die.

"You won't be able to do this by yourself.  I'm not sending you out alone."  He nodded towards the man standing near the wardroom door.  "Pretty handy in the cockpit, Mr. Macklin?  You did very well with the tug.  You brought up that first barge as well as any master mariner… well, almost.  I was on the bridge when you went after the second barge.  There was quite a bit more maneuvering than necessary, wouldn't you say?"

"I did what I thought best, sir."

"Which included taunting Ensign Garrett by circling around the barge.  You risked his life and our cargo with your stupid dallying.  I don't care about your reasons.  You're not a darky who doesn't know his place.  You're a sailor who threatened his ship with his irresponsibility.  And Mr. Garrett here will be the first to tell you that's something I never forget and rarely forgive.
 
You will report with Ensign Garrett to Dr. Singleton, who will give you instructions on how to operate the wireless-guided torpedoes the Chief is working on."

"The what, sir?"

"Garrett, you use that tone with me one more time, you'll be shoveling shit for pineapples in the Sandwich Islands the rest of your life.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Garrett more respectfully.  From what he'd heard, raw human sewage was used for fertilizer in Hawaii.

Oates dismissed everyone but the first lieutenant.  But as they filed out, the captain lifted a hand.  "One moment, Seaman Macklin."

Garrett gave the black man a savage smirk as he passed out, then threw a curious glance at the armed marine who remained at Amos' side.

Amos stood silently before the captain's desk.  At the chart table the first lieutenant indolently played a compass this way and that over a map, as though his calculations had been made far in advance and he was now toting items far removed.  Amos had never had a good look at the
Florida's
third
-
-
now second
-
-
in command. He was startled by his resemblance to Ensign Garrett.

Sinking into the dark cushions of his chair, Oates tapped the coal log on his desk, then pushed the journal to the side.  A strange feeling came over Amos when the old man raised his eyes.  There was a peculiar glint in them.  Not of fear--but of death on the hoof.

"Macklin, you of course know that your rating is gone forever."

Well, that at least cleared the air.  Amos had not known what to expect.  He'd half hoped that Oates would make the same kind of conciliatory offer he'd held out to Garrett: 
Do well, slay the beast, and the path to Seaman First Class will again be wide open to you
.  His disappointment was tempered by knowledge.  Now he knew where he stood.  Now, for better or for worse, he could make definite plans.

"Why?  Did Garrett meet you by the galley?  Don't look so surprised.  It's my job to know what goes on on my ship."  He shifted uncomfortably.
  If that's so, why the hell haven't I found that bastard Gilroy?
  "Is that why you taunted Garrett like that out on the barge?  What I mean is, you had everything a Colored could want, with prospects for more.  Once we got back home, you'd've won back your rating.  I made that promise to all the stewards on board.  I know you were there when I made that speech."

Amos was dumbfounded.  Here was a skipper who not only believed it was his duty to know of every little smack of confrontation on his vessel, but who seemed to succeed remarkably at the job.  Yet he could not fathom so simple a motive.  Did he think blacks weren't human?  That they did not contemplate things like justice?  Yes, he'd been met by the galley.  But there was more, so much more.  And Oates was a part of it.  Amos felt orphaned.  He was no longer at one with the clan of sailors.  'Colors' was no longer a time of day, but the flag of his skin.  And so very much more.  Amos remained silent before the captain because there was so much to say he could not guess where to begin.  And because he knew Oates was about to deliver a mortal command.  He was speechless in the face of imminent death.

"But of course, you know the real reason why I'm sending you on this mission?"

For a long moment Amos remained silent.  Then his head sank.  "I think so, sir."

"Then goddamn you to hell and may God spit on your soul."  Oates glared at the marine.  "Make sure he gets on that boat.  If he tries to get away, shoot him dead."

After they left, the captain pulled out his drawer and stared at a canvas-wrapped package.

The dynamite had fallen out of Macklin's sea chest during the last attack on the
Florida
.

1600 Hours

Singleton continued to harry the machinists and carpenters after the torpedoes were raised through the forward hatch onto the foredeck.  He had a fit when the pontoon frames failed to slide over the sleek metal tubes and only cursed more vociferously when the carpenters cured the problem by simply playing the metal loops until they fit.

"Why didn't you do that in the first place?" he complained as he stumbled over the workers.  "You've wasted precious time!"

Everyone was relieved when Hart summoned him away to help make final adjustments to the receivers.  Nervous eyes were cast seaward.  The remaining serpent had not been seen since the marines chased it off the island.  Where was it lurking?

The first lieutenant emerged and turned an indifferent back on the ocean.  He stood over the torpedoes musingly, like a man viewing a pair of corpses.

Hart and Singleton came down from the bridge, arguing.

"Test it how, Doctor?  Fire one of them at the atoll?  And even if it worked, there'd be no guarantee the second one would.  They'll be tested on the firing line.  There's no way around it."

Singleton conceded the sense of this, but continued to blubber protestations.  The two men set down the wireless gear they carried, Singleton panting heavily as he stood.  The air was muggy and still.  In order to preserve their precious coal supply, Oates had ordered the slowest speed possible to make way.  The unalleviated heat suggested they were barely moving at all.  This did not help the technicians as they bent over to attach the electric leads and eight
-
sided blades to the Bliss
-
Leavitts.

Hart's and Singleton's design called for the most delicate part of the torpedoes to be gutted.  These were the diaphragms and springs that operated the steering mechanism and controlled depth.  Sweat poured from the machinists as they filled the chambers with the operative bulk of Hart's wireless receivers, then began the arduous chore of attaching it to the steering gear astern of the immersion chamber in each torpedo.  Although the depth mechanisms were no longer needed, it was obvious the pontoons that replaced them would reduce their tactical range drastically. Almost as bad was that fact that Singleton was compelled to design an external attachment for the circuit blades, in order to avoid interfering with the central and outer shafts of the twin propellers.  This would increase air friction substantially.

"They'll wallow like sick dolphins," the chief machinist complained.

"It's not their looks that matters," Singleton sniffed.

"If you want something streamlined, it does."

They had to be careful not to damage the central chambers--the flasks in which air was pressurized at 2,225 pounds to the square inch.  If one of the inner gaskets broke there would be no power for the turbine.

Wires were guided through holes in the immersion chamber shell and hooked up to the horizontal antenna on the pontoon.  The antenna was stretched between two ten-foot masts jutting up fore and aft of both outriggers.

The lowering sun informed them it would soon be evening.  And they were only now prepared to begin the most dangerous part of the operation.  The two warheads were brought up through the hatch.  Many mouths went dry as the armorers bolted them to the propulsive systems. Packed with one hundred and thirty-two pounds of guncotton with twenty-five percent moisture, each was covered with a metal cone; these shielded tiny propellers at the tip of the warheads.  Once in the water, the propellers would release the sleeves, uncovering the firing pins and putting them in position to strike the detonating primer when the target was struck.  The cartridge primer ran through the center of the packed disks of guncotton.  Without the improvised cones, the propellers might slip.  Once the sleeves were off, the slightest misstep would blow them to hell.  More than one seaman wished the cones were welded on, rather than fastened with loose
-
looking iron bands.  The metal dolly wheels squeaked eerily as the warheads were transported across the deck.

Even Singleton kept his peace.

There wasn't a man among them who was not almost dead on his feet.  Every ounce of concentration had to be squeezed from their minds and bodies.  The armorers frequently toweled themselves off, removing sweat and renegade grease.  They had to maintain a firm grip.  Not only were they tensed against mishap, but also any shouts from the lookouts.  If the creature struck now, the warheads would be sent flying on their dollies.

When finished, the armorers stood back like gravediggers who could not leave the site soon enough.  They grinned, laughed nervously, then scurried away.  The torpedoes now belonged to the men who would use them.

"You'll have to stay on board," said Singleton, turning to Hart.  "You're familiar with the wireless and you already know the signal commands."

The ex-soldier's eyes widened.  "You're not going--"

"I have to go."  The doctor removed his straw hat and fanned himself.  "We're setting out to kill the prime specimen of all time.  Its only crime is that it's hungry."

"You think we shouldn't kill it?"

"Oh no," Singleton chuckled.  "Not that.  If cattle broke out of the slaughterhouse and tried to kill us, who could blame them?"

"Oates won't let you go."

"I've showed the ensign how to operate the torpedoes.  But what if something goes wrong?  They'll need someone out there who knows how they work.  The captain can't refuse.  Besides… look at it, Hart. This will make my name.  Considering how tarnished that's become, I must say I'm looking forward to a spot of fishing."

Hart understood this kind of thinking.  After all, the serpents had also given him the chance to redeem himself.  Anyway, he was too tired to argue.  He could not remember when he'd last closed his eyes.  Probably while he was trapped in the bunker, when there was little else to do but sleep.  But there had been nothing restful in that cauldron of nightmares.

He waved to a yeoman standing on the bridge.  A few seconds later, the eight
-
bladed switch on both torpedoes clicked over once.  The mercury in the bottom
-
most switches dropped through the narrow serpentine tubes and connected with the power source.  The rudders turned.

"Well I'll be damned," said the chief machinist.

"Yeah, but will they float?" said Ensign Garrett from the side.

It was a good question.  The remaining motor launch was only a quarter the size of the cutters that had landed the marines and which were still pulled up on the beaches of Eastern Island.  Even so, under ordinary circumstances it could have held over a dozen men, albeit crammed to the gunnels.  But as the torpedoes were lowered into the water, then lashed to either side of the boat, it quickly became apparent no such crowd was possible.  The pontoons were very large, over twice as big as the torpedoes.  But their buoyancy was offset by their very size.  Any attempt at high speed would instantly swamp the launch.  The crew
-
-
added weight
-
-
would have to be kept to a minimum. 

"Sad to say, this might very well succeed."  Singleton wiped his brow.  "In which case I have to pay my...."

"Respects?"

"No, Mr. Hart.  My dues."

1730 Hours

Captain Oates was stunned by Singleton's demand to go.

"I've talked with the boatswain.  He's of the opinion we need no more than a pilot and two men to release the torpedoes.  Our torpedo officers are more familiar with the Bliss-Leavitt than you are."
He glanced at the acting exec.  "Are there any left in one piece?"

The first lieutenant answered with a brusque shake of his head.  Oates found this silent response offensive
-
-
even mildly insubordinate
-
-
but decided to leave it be for the time being.

Oates was taken aback.  What bothered him most about Singleton going was that it was so selfishly convenient.  All his rotten eggs would be in a single lethal basket: the annoying civilian, the disaffected black, and above all the upstart ensign.  Would someone notice?